


in a haze, i count the silent days

by almond_blossoms



Series: overture [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adopted Peter Parker, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Brain Damage, Canon who?, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Kidnapped Peter Parker, Kidnapped Tony Stark, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Peter Parker Without Powers, Protective Tony Stark, Sad, idk what came over me, tony and steve adopted him when he was a baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29147598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almond_blossoms/pseuds/almond_blossoms
Summary: “I think it’s your birthday tomorrow, Petey,” Tony said when he’d gotten Peter dressed after a shower. “Yeah, you’re gonna be fifteen.” If there was something Tony knew how to do, it was talk. He upheld a near-constant stream of words for Peter to hang on to. He had yet to get a reaction, but, then again, Tony had no idea what was going on inside Peter’s mind. So he talked. His voice was something familiar to Peter.Peter’s eyes didn’t portray a single thing, but at least they lingered on Tony.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Steve Rogers, Peter Parker & Steve Rogers & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: overture [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1670587
Comments: 14
Kudos: 103
Collections: genuinely made me cry





	in a haze, i count the silent days

**Author's Note:**

> yea.. this is sad. didn't tag for graphic depictions of violence because while it's obvious peter has been harmed, we don't see any of it happen at all. 
> 
> title from "'til i hear you sing" from the musical "love never dies"

They kept him separate from Peter. Tony hadn’t seen Peter in thirty-six days. Or, somewhere around that, at least. There was no source of daylight, not even when they opened his door. They fed him regularly, so he based his time on that. But whenever he slept, he always woke up on his own, feeling rested, so he had no idea how long he was out. And, if he thought about it, the feedings were almost too regular. There was no distinction between day and night. The intervals between felt the same. No breaks that would indicate nighttime.

But he was confident that thirty-six days was a fairly accurate guess, given the circumstances.

He asked about Peter every time someone came into his cell. They never answered. They only fed him.

There was a shower, a toilet, and a sink in his cell. He knew they were always watching because clean clothes would be deposited through a hatch in his door whenever he opted to use the shower. And they would bring him water if he paced for too long, or screamed himself hoarse.

They never touched him. There was no need because as long as there was a chance they still had Peter, Tony would never risk his disobedience turning into a consequence for Peter to suffer. He had a dreadful feeling in his stomach because the worst they had done to him was push him to the floor when they first put him in his cell. They obviously wanted something, or they wouldn’t have taken him and Peter. So if they weren’t speaking to or harming Tony in the slightest, he didn’t want to think about what they might be doing to Peter.

But what else was there to think about? Peter was his kid, and took up at least eighty percent of Tony’s thoughts on a regular day. Now, the number was in the high nineties, leaving just a tiny bit of room for thoughts on how they would get out of there. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t stop imagining all the grotesque ways they could be hurting his kid. He couldn’t even pick at his thumb without being flooded with images of them tearing Peter’s fingernails off. Everything he did warped into a way they could be hurting Peter.

The past few days, when he estimated it was nearing night, Tony would sing a lullaby. He knew there were cameras, that they were watching. What if Peter was watching too? The possibility was enough for Tony to provide comfort in the only way he could.

Why hadn’t anyone found them yet? They’d taken Tony’s phone, but not his watch. His watch that JARVIS was supposed to always know where was. Peter had one, too, and Tony had designed them with this worst-case scenario in mind. If his estimates were correct, Peter’s fifteenth birthday was in six days, so why hadn’t anyone come for them yet?

Tony hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He never did, he always resisted until he just couldn’t. Then he’d sleep until his body deemed itself ready to wake up again. This time was different, but he couldn’t put his finger on why for a few disorienting seconds. There was noise. More notable, there were voices.

“Up. Get up,” a stern voice demanded as Tony blinked.

“Where’s Peter?” Tony groaned, refused to show them how much it threw him off to be spoken to.

“ _Up_ , I said. You’re supposed to be a genius, do I need to tell you a third time?” the pale man scoffed. To keep track of people, Tony had given them names. There were five of them. This one, he called Harry, because when he’d first seen him, Tony couldn’t deny the striking resemblance to Harry in _Dumb and Dumber_. He realized how ridiculous it was, but first thought best thought.

Tony did as he was told. “Where’s Peter?”

“Get your legs moving,” Harry huffed, dragging Tony along by the elbow.

There was no light outside his cell, either. He’d been unconscious, and hadn’t woken up until he was locked inside his cell, so he took in the unfamiliar walls, ready to keep track of where they were going.

Not far at all. Just around the corner. Harry fiddled with his keys, and outside another cell door, stood Gothel waiting for them, it seemed. She had long, curly, dark hair, and an always-present smirk on her face. She looked even more smug than usual, and it had Tony’s stomach fill with dread.

He was pretty sure Peter was on the other side of the door, but whatever relief he felt was wiped away with the look on Gothel’s face. He wanted to snap at Harry for taking so goddamn long to find the right key.

While Tony’s cell was equipped with a couple of flickering fluorescents, this one was pitch black. Tony strained his eyes, but couldn’t see anything else than the dull stripe of light from the dim light in the hallway. Harry reached a hand inside, apparently for a light switch, because fluorescents lit up this cell, too.

Gothel pushed him inside, and the door was locked behind him. It was identical to the one he’d been in. The shower, the sink, the toilet. He turned to his left. The bed.

Peter.

Peter was in the bed. He was sleeping.

“Peter,” Tony choked, and made it over to the bed before falling to his knees. He looked utterly peaceful, and it pained Tony to have to wake him up. But he had to see his eyes. “Peter,” he sobbed, and grabbed onto his shoulder, shaking him.

Peter’s eyes opened, but he didn’t blink himself awake like he always did. Tony realized his mouth had been closed, too. Peter’s mouth would always be open in his sleep. “Were you already awake?” Tony whispered. Peter stared at the ceiling. Tony placed a hand on Peter’s pale cheek, turning his head so he could look at him.

“I’m here, Petey,” he said. They locked eyes, but Peter’s face stayed emotionless. “Pete? Baby?” he choked. “It’s me, Petey, it’s Dad.”

Peter just blinked, looking at him, but not _seeing_. “Peter!” Tony forced past the suffocating lump in his throat. He landed a few gentle slaps on Peter’s cheek to get his attention. Peter’s eyes flicked to Tony’s hand, then back to his face.

“What did they do to you?” Tony rasped. He abruptly stood up, stumbling to the door. “What the fuck did you do to my son?” he bellowed, kicking and punching the door. “What did you do? What the fuck do you want?” he cried.

He couldn’t stand being even a few feet away from Peter now that they were finally in the same room, so he hurried back to the side of the bed. “Peter, come on, please look at me. It’s gonna be alright, Dad’s here now. I’m gonna fix this,” he rambled, running his fingers through Peter’s hair, but stopped when he realized it was basically all matted, and that he was probably pulling on Peter’s hair uncomfortably.

“God what’d they do to you?” He patted Peter down to look for injuries, but found nothing. Nothing except a bump on the back of his head, and a small, almost healed, wound on his right temple.

“Did they hit your head?” he trembled, turning Peter’s face towards him again. Peter seemed miles away. There was nothing in his eyes. “Peter,” he cried, stroking his cheek. “Did they hit your head?”

He climbed up on the bed. Peter went where he was moved, pliant in Tony’s arms as he cradled him. “It’s gonna be alright,” Tony whispered, and then sang a lullaby over and over until Peter’s eyes drooped close.

Peter looked at everyone the same way. Tony’s only comfort was that Peter seemed to linger on him unless someone forced his head in a different direction. They rarely did. They left Tony to care for Peter. He did everything for him, and made sure he was always as comfortable as he could possibly be.

He’d been in Peter’s cell for five days. In that time, he’d detangled every knot in his hair so that he could play with his curls to help him fall asleep. He’d also realized that while Peter could stand and walk on his own, it was much like taking care of a baby. He had no control over his bodily functions, so Tony quickly learned to take him to the toilet regularly. If put in the shower, he’d just stand there, arms at his side, so Tony washed him. He was reminded of a time when Peter was small, and needed help with everything just like now. Back then, Tony loved it, relished in the feeling of being needed. Now, it was horrifying to see his fourteen-year-old son completely distant and helpless.

“I think it’s your birthday tomorrow, Petey,” Tony said when he’d gotten Peter dressed after a shower. “Yeah, you’re gonna be fifteen.” If there was something Tony knew how to do, it was talk. He upheld a near-constant stream of words for Peter to hang on to. He had yet to get a reaction, but, then again, Tony had no idea what was going on inside Peter’s mind. So he talked. His voice was something familiar to Peter.

Peter’s eyes didn’t portray a single thing, but at least they lingered on Tony.

They still didn’t touch Tony. Not Peter, either, for that matter, but Tony knew that they had before. They provided food, water, clothes, and even came hauling a new mattress when Peter wet the bed in his sleep.

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault,” Tony said after yet another shower. He dressed Peter in the clean clothes, always a gray sweatshirt and gray sweatpants.

“It’s your birthday today,” Tony whispered, holding Peter close. They were sitting on the bed, Tony’s back against the wall, and he had sat Peter between his outstretched legs so that he could lean back on Tony’s chest. “You’re fifteen now. How’s it feel?” he spoke into Peter’s hair, rocking them slightly from side to side. “I bet it feels just the same. That’s what you said when you turned fourteen.”

Peter always kept his hair long enough to cover his ears, loose curls all over the place, and he had to constantly push it out of his face. You’d’ve thought Tony suggested he sacrifice his firstborn whenever he asked if Peter wanted to get a haircut. Only when it got in his eyes too much, would he give in, and get it trimmed.

When they were taken, he’d been on the brink of needing a trim. Tony kept brushing his hair out of his eyes because Peter would just leave it there. So Tony started braiding his hair. Thanks to his longtime friendship with Pepper, he knew how to do a french braid.

“That feel better? Now you won’t get your hair in your eyes all the time,” Tony smiled. He’d scoured his clothes for any rogue threads, and used the ones he found to tie off Peter’s braids. Three in total; one big one on the top of his head, and two smaller ones on the sides with the remaining hair. “I, for one, think you look quite fashionable. But I won’t leave them in at night, ‘cause Auntie Pepper always complains she gets a headache if she wears braids for too long.”

“Pops is looking for us,” he said a few hours later. He’d taken the braids out, and Tony had deemed it bedtime because Peter was yawning. “He’ll never stop looking for us, I promise. He’ll find us.” Tony knew there was nothing that could keep his husband from looking for them. If he couldn’t find them, no one could. He’d considered the fact that they might have Steve, too, but abandoned it quickly. It only brought suffering.

Tony was sure he would’ve gone mad if he didn’t have Peter. Though he never got any response from the boy, at least he had someone to talk to. Someone to comfort and take care of.

If he were alone there, Tony would’ve attempted escape at least five times already. But with Peter at risk, there was no way. He’d only seen five different people come to their cell, but he had no way of knowing if there were others. He didn’t know where they were. He didn’t know the way out. He didn’t know if he’d be able to call for help. He only knew five people, two cells, and the end of a hallway. He suspected they were underground due to the lack of daylight. None of those facts were helpful.

Peter’s eyes still lingered on him. Expressionless. But it just _had_ to mean something that no matter who came into the room, Peter only looked at Tony.

“Your name is Peter Stark-Rogers. You’re fifteen years old. You have brown eyes and brown hair. My name is Tony Stark-Rogers. I’m your dad. Steve Stark-Rogers is your other dad. You call him Pops. His hair is blond, his eyes are blue, and he’s tall. He’s looking for us.” Tony had started listing these simple facts for Peter every few hours. He didn’t show any signs of recognition, but if there was even the slightest chance it could help Peter make his way back, Tony would do it until the end of time.

Tony knew Peter had sustained brain damage. Very extensive, possibly irreversible brain damage. He hated that he didn’t know more. He didn’t know what he was working with. Had Peter lost all his memories? Was he simply unable to recognize and remember faces? Something had happened in the language center because Peter wasn’t speaking; didn’t even seem to understand what Tony was saying, and whatever part of his brain controlled continence was clearly not up and running.

Was Peter in there? Could he understand, but unable to show it because he was trapped in his own mind? Tony didn’t know whether to treat him as a fifteen-year-old boy, or a baby. Because he had to take care of him the same way he had when Peter was a baby, but teenage Peter had to be in there somewhere, so he didn’t want to humiliate him more than he already had. He treated him like a baby out of necessity, but he spoke to him as close to regularly as he could. Gentler than normal, repeating grounding facts, but worked on the assumption that Peter could somehow understand.

He felt sick when he realized he’d fallen into a routine, that things felt kind of normal. He estimated they were fed every three or four hours. He had Peter sit on the toilet twice between every meal to prevent an accident. He made sure Peter showered every two days. He repeated facts about their regular lives three times a day. He sang Peter to sleep when he suspected it was night. He wished he’d read up on neurology at some point in his life.

If he had to be honest, Tony had lost count of the days. He knew it was over fifty, but that was it. He didn’t have time to count when he had Peter.

He’d taken to pulling Peter along with him as he slowly paced around in their cell. He had to make sure Peter didn’t suffer muscle deterioration from not moving. He only moved when prompted, so Tony was certain he’d been mostly still for the entire month they were separated. He even stretched out Peter’s limbs for him and gave him massages to make sure he wasn’t hurting.

And he told Peter everything he did. Described it all in detail to ground both himself and Peter. If he stopped talking, there would be silence. Sometimes he could swear he caught Peter’s eyes shifting to an object or body part he mentioned.

“I’m gonna take you to the toilet now, Pete,” he said, and Peter’s eyes rested on him, but for a fraction of a second, it looked like Peter’s gaze shifted in the general direction of the toilet. “You’re in there, aren’t you? You have to be,” he whispered as Peter went where he was pulled.

He snapped at Peter once. _Once_. Tony was running on no sleep, and Peter was unresponsive as always. Tony shouted at him, shook him by the shoulders. Not roughly, he would _never_. Just trying to get his attention. All he got were the same, dull eyes, except they widened a mere millimeter at the outburst.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Peter, it’s not you I’m mad at,” he apologized, hugging his son to his chest. “None of this is your fault, I didn’t mean to take it out on you. You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re my perfect boy. You always are, no matter what” he mumbled. “Hmm, what do you say to some braids? Don’t want your eyes to get irritated.” He placed a pillow on the floor, and maneuvered Peter to sit on it. He carefully got rid of any knots with his fingers, then quickly did his hair into three braids, like he always did. Once finished, he pulled him back onto the bed.

“I bet you’re starting to feel a little hungry, huh?” It’d been a while since their previous meal. Porridge. Always gray, bland porridge. But it was better than nothing. “Don’t worry, we should be getting some food soon. Think you can eat the whole bowl this time? I would be so proud of you, but it’s okay if you can’t. If you’re full, you’re full, nothing to be done about that.”

When another two hours passed, Tony started to grow suspicious. They had never gone off schedule with the food. Tony paced, and for once, he let Peter sit on the bed.

He stopped in his tracks when there were some unusual noises coming from outside their cell. Some sort of commotion. His heart soared. Someone had found them. _Someone had found them_ , that had to be it. It sounded like fighting, so someone must’ve found them.

“Look at me, Petey,” he breathed, sitting down on the bed. “I think we’re gonna get out of here. Can you hear them fighting outside?” His eyes blurred with tears, and he would die if he was wrong.

He heard the familiar sound of keys clinking together, of the lock being turned, and he shot up to his feet. Just in case he was wrong, and whatever was on the other side of that door was someone even worse, he stood in front of Peter.

The door swung open, and all the fight left Tony’s body. It was Steve. He was looking at _Steve_ for the first time in… he didn’t even know.

“Steve,” he attempted, but no noise came out, he just mouthed the word.

“Tony. Tony, oh, my god.” His shield clattered as he dropped it. He scooped Tony into a crushing hug. “I thought I’d never find you, thought I’d go insane,” he cried into Tony’s hair.

“You found us,” Tony whispered disbelievingly, clutching at the straps on the back of Steve’s uniform.

“Peter,” Steve said, and Tony pulled back to cup Steve’s face in his hands.

“Steve, I need you to look at me,” he demanded shakily when Steve’s eyes wandered to the boy who was sitting on the bed. “He’s not gonna recognize you. Well, maybe he will, I have no idea, but he won’t react to your presence. He doesn’t react to anything.” His bottom lip shook as he had to explain to his husband that their son didn’t seem to know them.

“I know. I know, Tony. When you were taken, we got sent a link of… of a live recording of the two of you. It’s been rolling the whole time, so I know, Tony,” Steve sniffled, caressing the beard Tony had grown in captivity.

Tony swore his heart stopped beating. “So… so you know what they did to him.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do, but please let me bring you home before we talk about anything like that,” Steve begged, and though Tony itched to know, he nodded, and let Steve past him.

When Steve collapsed on the floor, kneeling in front of Peter, Tony went down on his knees, too, clutching onto Steve’s arm because his whole body suddenly ached without his touch.

“Hi, Peter. Hi, baby, it’s so good to finally see you,” Steve said, voice tight the way it always was when he was forcing back tears. “We’ve been looking so hard, and finally found you. We’re gonna go home now, Peter, it’s all gonna be okay.” He kissed his forehead, and ran a hand over his hair. “And those pretty braids, huh? You like when Dad does your hair?” he mused, and for once, Peter’s gaze lingered on someone other than Tony.

“Can we go home now?” Tony whimpered, leaning heavily on Steve now. He didn’t have to be strong anymore, and he felt himself ripping at the seams.

Steve turned to meet his eyes, and wrapped his arm around Tony’s waist to steady him. “Yeah. We can go home now,” Steve nodded, and Tony had never felt more relieved. Tomorrow could bring anything it pleased, because they were finally going _home_.

**Author's Note:**

> i might end up writing a chapter from steve's pov of the whole situation. keyword: might. so i'll mark this as completed for now in case i never end up writing it.
> 
> i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/txnysheart) and [tumblr](https://txnysheart.tumblr.com/) if anyone wants to chat !!


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